The college gates groaned open on a Monday, and the campus seemed to exhale the last remnants of the festival. Marigold petals, bruised and browning, clung to the edges of the drains. The air was a damp mixture of rain soaked earth and chalk dust.

For her return, Natasha chose the white chiffon saree. It was the most exquisite garment she owned, a relic of a more hopeful time. A delicate silver thread traced its border, and tiny, lustrous pearls cascaded from the pallu, catching the morning light like captured dewdrops. The fabric itself was as light as a breath, and when she draped it, it clung to her curves and floated around her, transforming her into a vision of something sacred. She looked like a divine, fertile goddess.